Chaser
by psiChic
Summary: Anything to dull the pain. Oneshot, Post S4 so spoilers for that. Hurt!Broken!Sam and Angry!Worried!Dean. Rated T just to be safe, due to thoughts of suicide.


_Hi! This here is another oneshot/ tag of sorts to 4.22 Lucifer Rising. It assumes Sam has already been through round 2 of detox and that Dean knows about his eyes turning black -- so it could follow my other story "Burning Bright", but it really doesn't have to. _

_Thanks as always to my lovely beta, PsychicWonderKitty, and extra special thanks to her for helping me with the title on this one. It sat for days nameless and lost, lol, before she came up with it. (hugs and cookies for her)_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are, sadly, not mine._

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**Chaser**

Dean didn't know what woke him up – it might have been the dream he'd been having, some weird sixth sense, divine intervention (he doubted the last one) – but something had him sitting bolt upright at three in the morning. Sitting up in one of the two beds in Bobby's spare room. The other was empty.

"Sam?" He asked the room in general, just in case his wayward brother might be crouching in a corner or standing just out of sight. Nobody answered though and, given the events of the past few days, it worried Dean.

Standing up and silently leaving the room, Dean crept through the house. _Not in the bathroom. Not in the library. Kitchen. Living room. Behind the coat rack. _Dean didn't think Sam would be going down to the basement again any time soon, so he didn't bother checking there. It seemed pretty safe to assume he wasn't in the house. Worry increasing a notch or two, Dean went outside.

The Singer Salvage Yard was a pretty big place, and the moonlight reflecting off the stacks of rusted metal and car parts made it hard to pick out much of anything. But Dean was expertly skilled and had years of training in little brother-finding, so he pressed on.

Sam took walks sometimes, but he'd never been one to wander when he was _really_ upset. That is, unless someone pushed him away. Dean replayed the events of that night in Cold Spring over in his head for the hundredth time. _You walk out that door, don't you _ever_ come back._ Dean remembered the last time Sam had had those words thrown at him just as clearly. Really, what had he been thinking? Did he really expect Sam to react any differently this time? And Sam had said he didn't know him…no, he knew _exactly_ what to say to hurt the kid. Dean mentally kicked himself. Bobby was right. He'd screwed up big-time on this one.

A small sniffling sound somewhere to his left broke the otherwise silent night and caught his attention. Dean would know that sound anywhere.

"Sammy? That you?" Dean half whispered, walking cautiously around a dilapidated Honda.

Sure enough, there was Sam, sitting on the hood of the Impala. His head was bowed so Dean couldn't see his face, but as he took in the rest of the image in front of him, Dean's eyes narrowed.

"What're you doing out here?" Dean tried to keep his voice casual. His eyes darted from the empty bottles to the piece in Sam's unsteady hands.

Sam flinched at the sound of Dean's voice. It took a moment for him to reply. "Nothin'."

"Nothin', huh? With an empty six pack and a loaded gun?" Dean felt like he should move forward, get to Sam, but he honestly didn't know if his legs could handle it. They seemed frozen.

"We always have guns, Dean. Besides, it _is_ the end of the world. Can't be too careful." He said it very calmly, almost monotonously, despite his wavering hands. Dean was just grateful the gun wasn't pointed at anything in particular. Yet.

"Nice try. But last time I checked, demons aren't afraid of a .45." Legs finally thawing out, Dean took a cautious step forward.

Sam looked up then, slowly raising his head. Tear tracks ran down his face, and the moon caught the droplets as new ones formed. He looked miserable. Bloodshot eyes wouldn't meet Dean's. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. "Dean –"

"Don't lie to me, Sam." It came out hoarse, more harshly than he'd intended. But anger was Dean's default mask for fear. And boy, was he angry now.

The dejected look Sam gave him as his eyes went back to the gun in his hands didn't help. He shook his head.

"So what? You were just gonna – come out here, drink yourself into a stupor and…" Dean could feel his own tears prickling behind his eyes, but it only served to spur him on. "Let me find your body in the morning? Or maybe I'd hear the shot – come running out here just in time to see you give the car a new paint job."

Dean saw the scenarios play out in his head, the limp, lifeless form of his brother draped across the Impala's hood. His head splattered against the windshield. What if the gunshot had been what woke Dean? What if he'd been five minutes too late? The thought made him want to vomit.

Sam hadn't looked back up at him yet. The tears continued to make their way down his cheeks, but he refused to talk. Like he didn't have anything to say for himself. It killed Dean that he wasn't even _trying_ to deny it.

"Answer me!"

Somewhere, in the back of Dean's mind, he knew he shouldn't be yelling. That what Sam needed now was a calm talking-down. He was lucky he hadn't spooked the kid into doing anything stupid already. Dean knew he wasn't handling this very well, but…Sam was stronger than this. How had Dean let him slip so far away? He'd thought they were past the worst – on their way to something resembling normal. Evidently, he'd been wrong.

"I'm doing the world a favor, Dean…" Sam said to the gun in his hand.

That stung. "A _favor_? And what about me? Huh, Sammy? What does this give me?" Dean took another step forward, voice lowering dangerously. "_I went to Hell for you_."

Sam's head snapped up; the kid looked like he was in physical pain. "I kn-know you did. You never should have…For nothing…"

Dean kept his voice even this time, almost as quiet as Sam's. "How can you say that? After everything that's happened, how can you even think that?"

Sam looked incredulously at him now, words coming out in a rush. "How can I not? You said it yourself, Dean. The Sam you knew is gone. Might as well get rid of the shell too. If I do it now, you won't have to." Sam raised the gun a little, cocking it.

"Yeah, well, I was wrong, Sammy. And even if I wasn't, I never wanted this –"

"You don't _understand_."

Sam's hands were getting steadier. Dean'd thought the shakes were from the drinking, but Sam wasn't really acting drunk. Just devastated. Dean was starting to panic now – he was running out of time. The next step took him within arms length of Sam.

"You're right, I don't. So why don't you just put down the gun and explain it to me?"

Suddenly, Sam was on his feet and backing away, around the front end of the Impala. The gun was pointed at Dean now which, in some sick way, made Dean feel a whole lot better. At least Sammy was safe.

"Get away from me, Dean. I don't wanna hurt you." He was shaking his head, furiously wiping the tears off his face with his free hand.

"Little late for that, kiddo." Dean took another step forward. He was pretty sure Sam wouldn't shoot him. Not on purpose, anyway. He'd been wrong about Sam. He wasn't a monster – he wouldn't kill his brother.

"Look at me, Dean!" Sam spread his arms out, looking about ready to crucify himself. It was his eyes though, that triggered the gasp Dean couldn't quite hold in. They were black, darker than tar. Like two fathomless holes. "_Look at me_. I'm not even human anymore…if I ever was."

It was probably quick, but to Dean it took an eternity for Sam's hand to bring the gun to his temple. He vaguely noticed how bizarre it was – to see tears flowing from the pitch black eyes. Like water from a well. Dean could hardly hear a word Sam was saying though, over the pounding of his own heart.

"Don't. Please." It was a plea, the breaks in his voice making it clear he was begging now. It didn't matter. Anything to keep him. Dean blurted out the first thing that came to mind, hoping he could get through. "Sammy, if you do this – you gotta know where the next bullet's gonna end up. You want Bobby to have to deal with two bodies in the morning?"

The blackness receded from Sam's eyes like oil, going to some unknown part of him that Dean wished he could scrub away.

"You can't. You h-have to stop Lucifer. The angels would just bring you back." He shook his head again.

It took a beat for Dean to find an answer to that. Sam had a point – it wasn't beyond their power (or their level of dickery) to bring him back just for the hell of it. Still… "Screw the angels. Sam, listen to me. _We_ are going to stop Lucifer. Us. You and me. I mean, hey, I broke the first seal – you got the last one. Way I see it, it's _our_ responsibility…both of us. I can't do it without you." _Scratch that._ "I won't."

Sam cocked his head. He seemed to be thinking it over. Dean held his breath and prayed.

"You mean it?"

"_Yes_."

Still eyeing him suspiciously, Sam slowly lowered the gun. The look of defeat hadn't left his eyes yet though.

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding. Reaching out just as slowly as Sam had lowered it, Dean took the gun from his brother's hand. It was unloaded and dismantled within seconds, the pieces thrown away. Dean heard them hit the skeleton of some car or truck a few yards behind him, but his eyes never left Sam. The kid looked lost.

"Sit down, Sammy."

He did, practically collapsing on the ground against a rusty sedan. His breath hitched. "I'm sorry…"

Dean looked down at him, one eyebrow raised. "I meant _on_ the car, Sam." He knelt down so they would be on the same level.

"Dean…"

Dean sighed. "I know, Sammy. Just…Don't you _ever_ do something like this again. Promise me."

Sam nodded, but avoided his stare. "I won't."

"Sam."

"I promise." He looked at him again, seemed almost annoyed. Dean took it as a good sign.

"Good." Dean moved to sit next to his brother, making sure they maintained the physical contact. Their shoulders were touching and their knees brushed against each other. It was closer than normal – especially considering the last few months – but he needed it. They both did.

It was a long while after that, both of them sitting against the car in silence, before Sam finally turned his head to face Dean. "Would you really do it? If…If I had?"

"Within the minute." Dean answered, staring straight ahead. He was still trying to calm himself down, grounding himself in Sam's touch. _He's alive. He's okay._ But still, the question was unnecessary. Dean couldn't go back to Hell – it's not like any demon would deal with him again anyway – but that didn't change the fact that he couldn't live with Sam dead.

"You're crazy, you know that? There's something wrong with you."

Dean could hear the sad attempt at humor in his brother's voice and decided to go along with it. "Says the black-eyed man waving a gun."

"Yeah…"

He could almost feel Sam deflating next to him, all traces of humor gone. _Way to go, Dean._ He turned to look at him.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam. We're gonna fix this. All of it."

"How?" Sam's voice sounded so small, yet so trusting – like it had when he was five years old, asking Dean how he knew Dad was coming home soon. Dean missed that tone, but it also broke his heart.

"The same way we do everything, little brother." He nudged his shoulder, smiling. "Together."

~The End~

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_Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed. Reviews are always appreciated. :)_


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